


laughter lines

by blamefincham



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fix-It, Future Fic, M/M, Miscommunication, No Patrick Kane, Offscreen Animal Death (brief mention), Post-Trade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:56:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5100200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blamefincham/pseuds/blamefincham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retrospect, Andrew would have done this goodbye a little differently if he’d known it was going to be six years before Brandon was back in town for the convention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	laughter lines

**Author's Note:**

> It takes a village to write a bigbang! Thanks to Jenny and Alexandra for betaing and kicking me in the ass when I dragged my feet like "I have four scenes left but I DON'T WANNA." 
> 
> Halfeatenmoon has made [an INCREDIBLE mix](http://8tracks.com/halfeatenmoon/laughter-lines-mix) to go along with this and they've been a wonderful artist to work with! Please give it a listen, they really nailed the vibe :)
> 
> Title from the Bastille song of the same name (aka the one with heartwrenching lyrics like "I'll see you in the future when we're older, and we are full of stories to be told").

If winning the cup in 2013 felt like a dream come true, winning it in 2015 feels like just reward after a long day’s work. The playoffs are a brutal slog—they only _just_ scrape by Anaheim—and this time, Andrew’s not some almost-rookie making it to the final on the back of other people’s work. This time the Hawks are his team too, really, and they fucking earned it.

Brandon might be the only one who understands what that feels like—at least, the only one left—so of course when he gets the cup he passes it to him. It’s not even a question. “We fuckin’ _did it_ , baby!” he cheers as he hands it over.

“Yeah we did, Shawzy,” Brandon shouts back, grin so wide it might split his face in half. Andrew slaps his ass as he takes off for his victory lap. 

Andrew feels like he’s floating, which is saying something because he could barely walk this morning. A cup win erases all injuries, though—that and copious amounts of alcohol, which they start drinking in the dressing room and don’t stop as they flood out of it to go celebrate with the rest of Chicago. 

By the time they leave the fifth bar, the group has begun to fracture. What started out as an entire team of hockey players descending on Chicago’s finest liquor-providing establishments has devolved to the most hardcore partiers seeking out a sixth and the rest being poured into taxis in twos and threes. 

Andrew’s been hanging off Brandon’s neck all night—or all season, depending on how you look at it. Brandon hasn’t complained once, though, and he isn’t now; instead he’s nuzzling Andrew’s hair every couple seconds. So Andrew doesn’t feel bad at all just giving the taxi driver his address. His place is closer, and the sun is going to start rising any minute now. Yeah, he only has one bedroom, but passing out together after a night of partying is totally bros. 

Well. Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t, but he and Brandon have been a little weird about each other this year, if the looks they’ve gotten from the guys are any indication. But what do they know—wrestling in the locker room is totally normal, even if they’re not fully dressed yet. And so is stealing each other’s stuff and playing keep-away, and so is constantly screwing with each other during practice downtime. Other guys do all that stuff. It’s normal.

Whatever. If Saader has a problem, Andrew has a couch.

Pulling themselves out of the cab is a bit of an ordeal because Brandon’s at that stage of drunk where he doesn’t quite remember how his feet work. It probably looks like a three-legged race to an outside observer, but they manage. Andrew’s just as drunk as Brandon is, but when they stumble inside he makes himself stop by the couch and say, “So…”

He doesn’t really know where he was going with that, but it doesn’t matter because Brandon rolls his eyes at him and shoves him toward the bedroom. That answers that question. 

It was a good call. They’re too drunk and too tired to take off their clothes, let alone deal with any kind of awkward tension. Brandon’s asleep the minute his head hits the pillow and Andrew’s no more than a few seconds behind. His last thought before he passes out is a flicker of pride that he managed to get his shoes off this time.

—

Andrew’s window faces west, which means that as it hits early afternoon they’re rudely woken by bright, hot sunshine. The first thing Andrew hears is Brandon groaning from somewhere to his left—and he echoes the thought. They didn’t like, drink water or take advil or anything before they passed out, which means they both feel pretty miserable now.

There’s some rustling now from Andrew’s left, and that had better not be Brandon trying to get up when he sounds this pitiful or Andrew _will_ sit on him, he’s done it before. Andrew turns his head, which feels like a heroic effort, to find Saader fighting ineffectually to pull his buttondown shirt off over his head. 

He snorts, and Brandon huffs at him. “It’s so hot,” he says pathetically.

Andrew laughs at him outright this time, draws up his strength, and scoots a little closer to help. “This is what buttons are for, y’know.” 

“Why did I wear this thing,” Saader complains even as he starts on the buttons from the top. 

Their hands meet in the middle, brushing as Andrew undoes the last button over Brandon’s stomach. They make brief eye contact—Andrew’s not sure when they got this close together, but all he can see for a second are Saader’s startled-looking bright blue eyes—and then Andrew laughs and shoves at Brandon’s shoulder, pushing his shirt off a little in the process. “Probably overestimated your drunk self’s capabilities,” he says, trying to pick up the thread of their conversation from where it died a few seconds ago.

The truth is, if Andrew’s really honest with himself, that these little moments of tension have been happening more and more frequently. The playoffs have been a pretty good distraction, but even they haven’t been enough to put a damper on this entirely—whatever _this_ is. Andrew’s even shamefully jerked off in the shower a couple of times with Saader’s crinkly-eyed smile on his mind. 

He’s rationalized it as ‘You can’t control what you think of when your hand’s on your dick,’ but with the weight of playoffs gone, there’s a lot of room in his head for like...feelings and shit. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours spent drunk on glory and no small amount of liquor, but Andrew’s been with Brandon for practically the entire time, and whenever he thinks about that, he feels terrified and exhilarated at the same time. Mostly terrified, though.

Brandon must be braver than Andrew, because he doesn’t take the easy route and keep talking about last night. Instead, he shrugs off his shirt, wrestles his arms out of the sleeves, then tugs off his undershirt. Once he’s shirtless in Andrew’s bed (something Andrew will definitely not be thinking about for a long time to come), he takes a deep breath and then reaches out to pull on the collar of Andrew’s shirt. “Aren’t you hot, too?” he says.

It’s only because he knows Saader like the back of his hand that Andrew can tell he’s freaking out. He looks pretty normal, but there’s something about his eyebrows—and his hand, still in Andrew’s shirt, is shaking minutely. 

“Yeah,” says Andrew, voice like sandpaper. He was so hungover he felt like the waking dead just minutes ago, but now, with this tension crackling in the air, adrenaline thrumming in his veins—it’s like he’s back out on the ice, facing off against Tampa. 

Saader pulls his hand back as Andrew grabs his shirt by the back neck and yanks it off over his head, rougher than he needs to be, but—if they’re doing this, and Andrew thinks they might be, then he’s got every reason to be afraid. 

Or maybe he doesn’t, because it’s _Saader_. Once Andrew’s shirt is off and banished to corners unknown, once they’re both just lying there with their shirts off, Brandon smiles at him, helpless-looking and so bright. Andrew has to smile back—he’s never been able to do anything else in the face of that expression—and then they’re kissing.

Andrew will never be able to say who moved first; they both moved at the same time, really, and now they’re kissing furiously, grabbing at each other with the desperation of drowning men. It’s the kind of ridiculously passionate kiss that belongs in a Nicholas Sparks movie, but it burns itself out before long because Andrew starts laughing into Brandon’s mouth, dizzy with happiness. 

“What?” says Brandon against his lips.

“ _Aren’t you hot, too?_ ” Andrew mimics, rolling over so he’s on top of Brandon. Brandon’s hands go to his waist, steadying, and Andrew folds his arms on Brandon’s chest, smiling like the cat who got the cream. “I dunno, Saader, am I?”

Brandon scrunches up his face. “Eh, you’re okay,” he chirps.

“What!” Andrew protests immediately. Saader takes the opportunity to flip them, which is fine with Andrew, because it means he gets to lie back while Brandon gets his mouth on Andrew’s neck. He’s wicked with it, too—Andrew can feel the scrape of Brandon’s teeth on his neck _and_ the scrape of his beard on his chest, and yeah, this is already way better than he thought it would be. 

Brandon pulls away after a bit, evidently satisfied with the mark he’s made, and says, “Hey, stop me if...y’know.” 

_God_. Andrew kind of can’t believe this is his life right now. Saader’s laying on top of him, frowning a little, all concerned that he might do something Andrew doesn’t want, as if that’s even remotely possible. Andrew laughs, gently, and smooths out the crease between Brandon’s eyebrows with his thumb. “Not gonna be a problem, but yeah.”

Saader frowns, presumably over being laughed at, but he kisses Andrew briefly and then trails kisses down his chest. It’s so tender and so hot at the same time, like—Andrew sincerely hopes Brandon doesn’t think this is gonna be a one-off, because he might be seriously ruined for all other sex by the time this is over. 

When he reaches Andrew’s jeans, he looks up at him again to check in—and the consideration is touching, but really, really not necessary. What is necessary is that he get his hand and/or mouth on Andrew’s dick as quickly as possible. Screw dignity; Andrew nods and gets a hand in Saader’s hair (which has been driving him crazy for _months_ , god, this is the _best_ ), and apparently that’s encouragement enough. 

Brandon makes quick work of undoing Andrew’s jeans, then getting them and his underwear out of the way with one quick tug. Andrew’s dick is fully hard, and Saader actually smiles at it for a brief second, because he’s a complete idiot and Andrew is _so fond_ of him—but then he wraps his hand around the base and his mouth around the tip at the same time. 

Andrew groans like it’s being punched out of him and, honestly, it kind of feels that way. He tightens his fingers in Brandon’s hair and just says whatever comes to mind, filter completely gone. “God, your fucking _mouth_ , your mouth and your hands, I don’t know what I did to deserve this but _fuck_ I hope I keep doing it,” he swears. 

Brandon looks up at him through his lashes as he sinks down deep enough to kiss his own fist, and that sight is something Andrew’s _never_ going to forget. It’s only through sheer power of will that he doesn’t embarrass himself by ending this thing right here and now. 

He closes his eyes for a second, to calm himself down, and then releases his grip on Saader’s hair. Instead of pulling and probably hurting him, he forces himself to be gentle, smoothing his fingers along Brandon’s temple. Brandon inclines his head just slightly towards the touch and moans a little, the vibrations doing incredible things to Andrew’s dick. 

“You’re so good at this, fuck,” Andrew pants, “I’m probably gonna embarrass myself, but it’s not even embarrassing ‘cause it’s you, like, I’d like to see the guy that could last with your mouth on him, y’know?” Saader moans again, which is almost too much—but he seems to know that, because he pulls off right away. 

Andrew whines, he can’t help himself, but Brandon is laughing and pushing himself up until he’s lying right next to Andrew, hand still on his dick. “You can’t even shut up during sex, can you?” he teases, hand cupping Andrew’s jaw.

“Think the word you’re looking for is _especially_ ,” says Andrew nonsensically, but fuck it, his brain is pretty much offline right now. He leans forward and crushes their lips together. It’s just as passionate as their earlier kiss, though not nearly as desperate. Brandon’s tongue is absolutely wicked, and it’s made all the hotter by the way Andrew can taste himself in Brandon’s mouth. 

Brandon takes hold of Andrew’s hip with his free hand and guides him closer, not that that takes much persuasion. Once Andrew’s half on top of him, he manhandles him into the correct position, then wraps his hand around both of their cocks and starts to stroke. 

They moan in unison into each other’s mouths, which might make Andrew giggle if he wasn’t so fucking turned on right now. The leftover wetness from Brandon’s mouth takes just the right amount of edge off the friction; it’s essentially a fucking handjob but it’s the best handjob Andrew’s ever gotten, that’s for damn sure. 

It’s over all too quickly. Andrew doesn’t embarrass himself, but he does come first, which isn’t surprising since Saader’s been doing all the work. By the time he comes down from his orgasm, Brandon’s nearing the edge, but Andrew manages to get a few quick strokes in to help out, so he doesn’t feel like a completely worthless sexual partner. 

To Andrew’s immense delight, Brandon proves to be extremely cuddly after sex. He collapses almost entirely on top of Andrew and then nuzzles his face into Andrew’s neck. It’s adorable. Andrew knows that they should definitely, for sure, at least go clean up and drink some water before passing out again, or they’re going to wake up in a few hours still hungover and possibly stuck together, but it would take a stronger man than him to deny Brandon anything, and what Brandon wants right now is apparently to cuddle. 

—

When Andrew wakes up, the sun is much lower in the sky and he’s alone.

It’s a little surprising, but not, like, a huge deal. Andrew knows he’s a heavy sleeper—maybe Brandon tried to wake him before he left. It’s not like he would have expected Saader to wait around his place all day or anything. They’ll see each other in the next few days and eventually have some kind of conversation about this, and everything will be fine.

—

It’s not fine.

As it turns out, the only thing Andrew was right about was that they’d see each other. They do, and it’s not awkward, but they don’t talk about it—there are group outings and press conferences and other public things, which aren’t exactly rife with great opportunities to have serious, private conversations. It’s also maybe a little that Andrew’s kind of afraid of not getting the outcome he wants, so he doesn’t push too hard to get Brandon alone. If he had to guess, he’d say Brandon was doing the same thing—not that he _knows_ what outcome it is that Brandon wants, because if he did, then he’d do something about it. The not knowing is terrible, but it’s not as bad as knowing the answer’s no.

Before he knows it, the end of the month is looming and he’s hugging Saader goodbye—the team-wide party is breaking up, and Brandon’s going to his family’s place in Florida for vacation. Their hug is maybe longer than it should be, considering that it’s in front of a bunch of teammates, and when they pull away Saader is looking at Andrew with this weird, indecipherable expression.

Andrew would like to smooth out the crease between his eyebrows with his thumb again, but that would definitely draw attention. Instead, he punches Saader in the shoulder and rallies his courage, then says quietly, “Hey. We’ll catch up and talk once you’re back in town for the convention, yeah?” 

Saader’s expression clears a bit, and he punches Andrew back. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. He ruffles Andrew’s hair and moves on to say goodbye to somebody else.

In retrospect, Andrew would have done this goodbye a little differently if he’d known it was going to be six years before Brandon was back in town for the convention.

—

He technically finds out about the trade from twitter. He’s laying on the couch, scrolling through it and reading the occasional article about how awesome the Hawks are. A perfectly respectable late afternoon offseason activity, if you ask him.

He refreshes his feed, and at the top there’s a tweet from the NHL twitter: “The @NHLBlackhawks have traded Brandon Saad to @BlueJacketsNHL.” 

Instantly, Andrew’s stomach is filled with a sick, swooping sense of dread. It’s got to be some kind of mistake—a fake account he followed by accident, or some intern who’s definitely getting fired now, _something_. He closes out of twitter reflexively, and then, not knowing what else to do, calls Jonny. 

Jonny’ll know what’s going on. Jonny’ll make this make sense. He’s the captain, that’s like, his entire job. Andrew stands up and paces as he hunts through his contacts, hands shaking so bad he can barely hit the right name.

Jonny picks up on the second ring. Without preamble, Andrew says, “It’s not true, is it, Tazer? They didn’t really trade Saader?”

There’s a heavy silence, which is not at all the emphatic reassurance Andrew was expecting. Finally, Jonny says, “I’m sorry, buddy. It’s true.”

Andrew hangs up. 

Jonny calls back twice, but Andrew ignores both calls right away, and Jonny must get the message, because he stops calling. 

He’s been through trades before—his close friends have been traded before; hell, Nick was his roommate. But it was never supposed to be Saader. It was supposed to be Andrew before it was him. The front office went on and on all season about how he was the future of the franchise and signing him was a top priority, and then—this?

It doesn’t make any fucking sense. Andrew grabs for—not his phone, that’s wasteful, a pillow—and throws it at the wall. It’s not destructive enough to make him feel better. The glass of water off the coffee table is better, the shattering really satisfying, but it still makes him feel guilty. He collapses back onto the couch and drops his head between his knees, trying desperately to calm down.

It doesn’t make any sense...unless Saader _wanted_ to be traded. If it was just a money thing, like—the rumors Andrew's done a shitty job of avoiding have all suggested it was going to be Sharpy and/or Bicks. If it had been either of them getting traded, Andrew would’ve been sad but mostly ready for it. This...he knows they wanted to keep Brandon around, so it must have been him who wanted to go.

And if he wanted to go, it’s hard for Andrew to think that can be anything other than his fault. He’s sure it wasn’t the only reason, but...maybe Brandon was still drunk when they woke up together and Andrew took advantage of him. Maybe he regretted it and could tell just how hopeless Andrew was over him and couldn’t bring himself to be that asshole. Maybe neither of those reasons is enough on their own, but coupled with a million or two more a year and a bigger role on the team...Maybe if Andrew had just kept his hands to himself instead of pushing for more, he and Saader would still be teammates.

—

As upset as he is initially, well...Trades happen. That’s a fact of life in the NHL, every guy knows that. Andrew’s pretty resilient; he broods about it for a while, then sucks it up and forces himself to be super friendly to the new guys so he doesn’t fall into the trap of resenting them for not being Brandon. Jonny keeps giving Andrew appraising looks like he’s checking on him, even though Andrew knows he’s not that much better off. He keeps having to grapple with him to get him to stop, which is at least an effective distraction for both of them.

It’s also not as if Saader goes completely AWOL and stops talking to everyone. He does for a week or two, presumably while he gets his head above water, but after that he and Andrew text sometimes, sending each other funny articles or unflattering pictures of each other from twitter (Saader’s goal faces are still the stupidest things Andrew’s ever seen). But they only face each other twice a year, and Brandon only comes to visit a couple of times—before Andrew really knows it, it’s been two years since the last time. Andrew knows planes work both ways, but every time he lingers on Kayak for too long, the niggling little voice at the back of his head reminds him that Brandon might not really want to see him, considering the circumstances. 

The firsts were the hardest—first time Andrew looked for him on the ice during practice and then remembered, first game without him in the locker room, first time he scored on the Hawks. But the firsts eventually run out for the most part. The first time the Hawks face the Jackets in the playoffs, though—six years pass before Andrew has to deal with that.

They swept the first round against the Flames despite scraping into the playoffs as a wildcard, then beat the Oilers in six. They take the Jets in six, too, which means they have a real shot at being the first team since the salary cap to be back-to-back champs.

Of course, to do it, they’ll have to go through Columbus. Columbus, on their first trip to the final, high off a three-year playoff streak, a division-leading season, and an ECF sweep of the Islanders. Columbus, Brandon’s team. 

Andrew hates to lose, but there’s a little part of him that kind of wishes they had, at some point before now, because he knows this first could be the worst one yet. 

—

Two games a year is just enough for Andrew to sort of forget how fucking fast Saader is, but it’s burned into his memory when he scores on Darls on breakaways _twice_ in the first game. He gave all the right bland soundbites to the media about what it’s like to face your old team in a situation like this, but Andrew can’t help but wonder if this is Brandon’s way of making sure they all know where his loyalties lie now.

Andrew’s careful not to make eye contact with him between plays. It’s easier that way.

Going into the series, the Hawks are the clear favorites to win. The Jackets have had a good season; the Hawks have had a good decade. The Jackets have youthful energy and hunger, but the Hawks are the _Hawks_. They make it happen when there’s glory on the line. 

Nobody’s surprised when the Jackets win game one. The Hawks even the series in game two; the Jackets pull ahead again in game three. There are endless punny article titles about a lack of physicality in what could be a “Black and Blue” series, but that doesn’t make it easy: it’s a series of battles in the neutral zone followed by heart-stopping rushes, and there’s as many beautiful goals as greasy ones for a change. 

The Jackets win game four as well, remaining undefeated at home in the playoffs. Game five is an elimination game for the Hawks, and that always means everybody steps it up. Andrew blocks a shot with his chin and gets another set of stitches, and the Hawks get the win.

Game six is in Columbus, which means the Jackets have a chance to win it at home. It seems like every third person in Nationwide is wearing a Saad jersey. Some of them are old Saad Hawks jerseys; Andrew wonders who they’re rooting for.

As a rule, Andrew doesn’t read the Hawks’ press during the playoffs. There are way more possible risks than benefits. But he needs something to do on the plane or he feels like he’ll have a nervous breakdown, so he reads a couple articles, and apparently every hockey writer on the planet expects the Hawks to scrape the win and bring game seven back to Chicago for an appropriately intense finale. 

So of course, they don’t.

Game six is a fucking mess from start to finish—for the Hawks. The Jackets just dominate in every possible way. They’re being outskated, outplayed, outmatched. Q screams at them during the intermissions, but it’s not like they’re not trying. Andrew doesn’t know if he believes in the hockey gods, but if he did, he’d say they must have decided which team they wanted to win, because it seems like nothing the Hawks can do comes even close to stopping the Jackets.

The final score is 5-1. The handshake line is the hardest thing Andrew’s ever had to do. 

He’s courteous, if a little terse, just trying to hold himself together until he can get to the locker room and break something or cry or both, but then he gets to Brandon, and—he tries to tell his right shoulder “good series”, but then Brandon says in his stupid, soft voice, “Hell of a series, Mutt,” and pulls him in for a hug.

Andrew goes, because he’s never been able to deny Saader anything. He lets himself collapse against Brandon’s neck just for a second. When he breathes in, he can tell Brandon still uses the same fucking shampoo, underneath the familiar scents of sweat and gross hockey pads and something that’s just _Brandon_ , something that reminds him of long nights on the bus in Rockford and hotel rooms as rookies in Chicago—and it’s abruptly too much. 

They’re probably holding up the line anyway. Andrew tears himself away, forces a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, and shoves at Saader’s shoulder before he reaches for whatever anonymous Jacket is next in line. It’s good enough to convince the cameras that he’s fine, but from the way he can see Saader’s head turned towards him out of his peripheral vision, he knows it didn’t work on him.

That’s fine. Andrew didn’t expect it to. 

—

Losing in the final isn’t something Andrew’s had to deal with before, so he feels completely justified in gluing himself to his couch for a week or so. He gets on with his offseason, then: starts training, avoids social media so he doesn’t have to see the Jackets spraying champagne on each other, the usual. He’s answering his texts, if only to make sure nobody gets sent over to check on him, but he’s not doing much other than that.

He’s back on his couch again, a couple weeks after the final, when he gets a group text from Brandon. There have been a couple of those over the years, letting the Hawks who are still around from Brandon’s tenure know when he’s going to be in town. But those texts usually include dates, and this one—this one just says _’guess who’s coming back :)’_

Andrew’s heart jumps into his throat. Does that mean—no way, no _way_ , it’s July first so maybe, it's possible, but—he can’t let himself get his hopes up until he knows. He calls Saader, but the phone rings and rings and when he checks the screen, he sees he’s on call waiting. That almost definitely means Jonny beat him to it, because he’s probably the one who understands most the way Andrew’s feeling right now. 

Part of Andrew wants to check twitter or something to try and get more information, but he’d really rather hear it from Brandon himself. He gives Jonny and Brandon another five minutes, which he spends pacing frantically around his apartment, and then he starts calling incessantly until Brandon finally picks up.

“Hey, Shawzer,” says Brandon, soft. 

“Hey yourself, you cryptic bastard,” says Andrew, as cheerfully as he can manage. “What the fuck was that text, asshole? Are you _trying_ to give us all heart attacks?” He’s leaving room for Brandon to clarify that he’s just coming back for a visit, trying not to let on exactly how much that will trample the hope he’s trying not to feel. 

Brandon laughs at him; it’s so familiar it hurts. “Sorry, I just got the news that it was official and I got a little excited.”

Andrew waits. It’s—that sounds really, really promising, but he doesn’t want to say it in case that’s some kind of jinx that’ll bring all of this crashing down around his ears.

“I’m coming back to Chicago, Shawzy,” Brandon confirms. “For good. Or for the next five years, anyway.”

Andrew exhales. “Holy fucking shit,” he says, grinning so hard his face hurts. It’s as shocking as the trade was, maybe more, but like—in a _good_ way. He knew Saader’s contract was up this year, but hadn’t let himself think about it. He’s been in Columbus twice as long as he was in Chicago, he _just_ won a cup with them, there’s no way he’d still want to...but apparently, he did. “Really?” Andrew has to ask.

Brandon laughs at him again. “Yeah, really.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Andrew swears. He wishes he had something more eloquent to say, but he’s so happy he can’t actually find any words other than profanities with which to express himself. This hasn’t happened since the first cup win. 

This is Saader, though, and Saader knows him, knows what it sounds like when Andrew’s shocked almost-silent with joy. He fills the space easily. “Yeah, it’s—Hoss gave me a heads up a couple months ago that he was going to retire when his contract was up, said if I was interested in coming back that I should get my agent on the phone, so I thought about it, and…” He trails off, but Andrew can picture him shrugging, like he always did when he didn’t quite know how to finish a story. 

Does. Like he always does.

The dam breaks; now there’s about fifteen things fighting to come out of Andrew’s mouth at once, expressions of how excited he is and questions and wordless shouts of joy, but what he manages to say is, “Why?”

Brandon pauses, like he’s really thinking about his answer. “Just...felt like time to come home, I guess.” 

_God_. Isn’t that a punch in the gut, that Brandon’s been in Columbus for six years now and still thinks of Chicago as home. It feels like Andrew’s heart is going to burst. “You motherfucker, are you _trying_ to make me cry?” he growls. He’s sure Brandon can hear the smile in his voice and it ruins the effect, but whatever.

He’s right. Brandon’s poorly-repressed laughter is a good indicator that he’s completely failed to be intimidating. Andrew continues, “And, like—you decided to tell all of us via _cryptic group text_? What the fuck is wrong with you, you jackass?” 

Brandon’s still laughing at him. It’s so familiar it makes something in Andrew’s chest ache. “Missed you, Andy,” Brandon says instead of an answer.

“Yeah, yeah, you too, asshole,” Andrew gripes automatically. He’s still smiling. 

—

They’ve all got plenty of money, so standard protocol would be for Brandon to have a service take him from the airport to Jonny’s house, where he’s staying until he finds his own place—but it’s been six years, so fuck standard protocol. Andrew calls Jonny, weasels Brandon’s flight details out of him, and threatens to tell Seabs about that time with the tequila if Jonny tells Brandon he’s coming. 

Like most of Andrew’s decisions, he makes his choice and only starts to feel nervous about the outcome once it’s too late to do anything. He’s already committed to going, he’s not going to back out now, but—what if it’s not the same between them, what if they’ve grown up and grown apart too much over the last six years to grow back together again? What if Brandon thinks it’s, like, weird or over the top that Andrew’s surprising him like this? Of course, Brandon’s the one leaving a team and a city that love him to, in his own words, come home to Chicago. So it can’t be just Andrew feeling weird and intense and off-balance about this...right?

Andrew’s antsy all day, keeps checking the time every two minutes until he can finally justify getting ready. He debates over the 2015 Stanley Cup Champions t-shirt he found in the back of his drawer for a solid ten minutes before saying “Fuck it,” to his empty apartment and putting it on. 

The drive to O’Hare is stressful and awful for a route Andrew knows like the back of his hand. Every time traffic so much as slows him down, he’s tapping his fingers against the windowsill, checking the clock—he just, he needs to get to the damn airport and get this stupid reunion or whatever over with already so he can stop feeling like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin.

Checking the arrivals screen and making his way as close to the gate as security will allow him is simple, routine, but once he’s run out of things to do other than wait, it’s like Andrew’s nerves multiply even more. He paces a little, trying to drive out the random nightmare scenarios his mind keeps spawning. Brandon’s not going to see him, turn right around, get back on the plane, and beg Columbus to take him back. For one thing, he wouldn’t, but more importantly, neither planes nor hockey contracts work like that.

Once people start to trickle through the security checkpoint, Andrew forces himself to relax—or at least look relaxed. He slouches against a wall and wipes his sweaty hands off on his jeans. Not that he and Brandon are going to be shaking hands or anything, because oh God, that would be so awkward, but—it makes him feel a little more prepared or whatever. It’s not like he’s got anything to do other than wait.

Enough people pass by that Andrew starts to worry Jonny lied to him or he read some gate information wrong or _something_ , but—then there he is, walking back into Andrew’s life like Andrew’s been quietly hoping he would for years. 

Saader hasn’t noticed him yet; he’s got his head buried in his phone, which gives Andrew the opportunity to creep on him a little. He walks a little taller than he used to, shoulders back, confident. Andrew supposes that makes sense, considering he’s spent the last few years dragging a team out of mediocrity and it’s paid off in another cup ring. That’s all he has time to notice, really (other than that Brandon’s traditional offseason buzzcut is a little longer than it used to be) before Brandon looks up, catches sight of him, and his face splits into one of his huge grins. 

That familiar smile sets him at ease instantly. Andrew’s stomach stops churning and instead of nervous, abruptly, he just feels _happy_. He raises his hand to wave just as Saader does the same thing, and it feels like a tape-to-tape pass, satisfying and innately right. Saader starts walking faster, and Andrew starts laughing. 

He’s still laughing when Saader gets past security and wastes no time wrapping him in a bonecrushing hug. Andrew hugs him back just as tightly. He buries his face in Brandon’s neck, which he might have worried was a little much if Brandon’s hand wasn’t fisted in the back of his shirt. They haven’t talked about anything yet, but Andrew can tell already that it wasn’t just him feeling—dumb, emotional, too much in general—about seeing each other again.

When they separate, Andrew knows he should punch Saader in the chest or something, but they’re cloaked in the relative anonymity of a crowded airport, so he just—lets himself look, for a second. Brandon doesn’t look _that_ different from the way he used to or the way he’s looked in the brief glimpses Andrew’s gotten over the years, but there’s something about his face. He’s grown into his features a bit, maybe, and there are definitely laughter lines beginning to form around his eyes. It’s like that maturity he’s always possessed fits him a little better now. 

There’s a flippant joke about the staring he knows he’s been doing on the tip of Andrew’s tongue, but Brandon speaks first. “I didn’t really notice your scar before, Shawzy. That’s pretty sick,” he says, gesturing vaguely in the direction of Andrew’s left eye, and oh, right, that flukey high stick from the playoffs against Calgary that left a thin, white line through his eyebrow. He’s gotten used to the way it looks on his face by now, but of course Saader wouldn’t be.

“It makes me look like a total badass, eh?” Andrew tosses an arm around Brandon’s shoulders and starts walking; Brandon goes with him, easy.

“It’s not bad, but it’s definitely not enough to make up for how short you are,” Brandon chirps. Andrew steps on his foot, and Brandon laughs at him, then laughs more when Andrew affects an innocent face like it was an accident. It’s exactly the kind of shit they’d pull when they were kids fresh on the Hawks, and Andrew doesn’t even have words for how relieved he is that they still fit together. 

—

Jonny’s the NHL’s ideal captain for a reason, and he’s always had a soft spot for Saader, so Andrew’s completely unsurprised when he gets a group text about a barbecue at Jonny’s the night before the convention. Typical Tazer: a great way to introduce Brandon to the new guys and let him catch up with the old ones in a low-stress environment without cameras and fans trying to poke in everywhere.

Andrew knows, logically, that Brandon’s perfectly capable of talking to people—he did it for himself for the last six years, for example—but once he shows up, he kind of plasters himself to Brandon’s side and doesn’t leave. Normally at parties like this he flits around from one group of guys to another, not staying with any for long, but...he’s just missed Brandon, okay, and all the young guys look up to Andrew even if they say they don’t, so he’s a perfect choice to introduce them all to the greatness that is his best friend. 

“This dumbass here is Jojo,” Andrew says, before leaping onto Joey’s back without warning to give him the noogie of his life. Brandon’s laughing, and Jojo’s used to it; he’s a monster of a guy, totally capable of supporting Andrew’s weight, and Andrew’s been jumping on him since he came up from Rockford three years ago. 

Joey’s so used to it, in fact, that he doesn’t even spill his drink. He just lets Andrew use him like a human jungle gym, and once Andrew’s satisfied with his noogie results, he lets go and Jojo turns around to try for revenge. Andrew’s too quick for that, though. He ducks behind Saader—since the point is to introduce them, and besides that, Brandon’s no shrimp; he makes a great human shield.

Brandon, still laughing, extends a hand to Joey, who shakes it with a smile. “Nice to meet you,” Brandon says politely. Andrew makes faces at Jojo from over Brandon’s shoulder; Jojo snorts and nods in his direction, but by the time Saader turns around Andrew’s smiling angelically. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you too, man,” says Jojo as Saader looks back to him. “This guy, literally every story from his first couple of years starts out like ‘This one time, me and Saader...’” 

Andrew elbows Brandon in the side. “Hey, remember that time we made Jonny’s toilet explode?” 

Brandon doubles over with laughter; Joey says, “What!” extremely indignantly. “You’re a terrible mentor, you never told me you knew how to blow up a toilet. I could’ve used that last year when Louie and I got in that prank war.” 

“I didn’t tell you because _I_ don’t know how; Saader was the mastermind,” Andrew protests. 

Somebody claps Andrew on the shoulder hard enough that he stumbles sideways into Brandon. “Don’t either of you help him,” says Duncs from over Andrew’s head. “The last thing we need is another Mutt and Manchild now that we got the original set back.” He gives Brandon a moderately aggressive side-hug, then continues on his way to the grill. Joey starts laughing; Duncs calls over his shoulder, “I mean it, Johnson. I’m too damn old to have my fucking toilet blown up.” 

Brandon and Andrew exchange a look, and then Brandon leans towards Jojo. “They still call Duncs Jigsaw sometimes, right? I’ll tell you how if you promise not to do it to him, ‘cause I don’t think they’d ever find my body.” 

Joey smirks at Andrew. “I’m sure the Mutt would sniff you out,” he chirps. Andrew punches him in the arm more out of obligation than actual offense.

He’s right, though. It’s not like Andrew’s been lonely for six years, moping around the locker room and refusing to smile, but he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be part of a duo. 

—

Saader sticks around Chicago after the convention. He’s staying with Jonny temporarily, but he’s working on getting his shit figured out before the season starts: find an apartment, move all his things from Columbus, relearn the city. 

Andrew texts him as much as he feels like he can get away with without being super annoying, which ends up being quite a bit, because Brandon always answers him right away. He knows it must be hard for Brandon—sure, he’s coming back to his old team, but in many ways, it’s a new team. So few of the guys from then are still here. Andrew’s kind of surprised that he’s one of them. 

But he is, and he’s one of the guys Saader was closest to, regardless of the murky way they left things. Andrew wants to be sure he’s there for Brandon, offering him a bridge of familiarity to help him readjust. Judging by the frequency and speed of Brandon’s responses, he’s taking Andrew up on the offer, so when they’re well into August and hockey season is starting to loom closer and closer, Andrew invites Brandon over to his place for beer and pizza.

The thing is, see, that while they’ve hung out several times and texted almost constantly, most of their conversations have been light and casual: small talk, catching up on inconsequential shit, chirping each other over video games. And that’s good for getting used to one another, but they were best fucking friends before, and if they’re going to be again, then Andrew wants to know how the last six years were, _really_ , and how Brandon’s changed in that time, and how he hasn’t.

Andrew’s big on actually dealing with his shit these days. Say a lot of things about him, but don’t say he doesn’t learn from his mistakes.

The evening starts out casually enough; they play a few rounds of Mario Kart, Andrew schools Brandon easily, they laugh and drink a few beers and demolish the pizza. Then Andrew tosses his controller aside, turns sideways on the couch so his feet are poking Saader’s thigh, and says, “So. Worst thing that happened to you in the last six years, go.” 

Brandon gives him a weird look, but Andrew’s got his ‘dare you’ face on so Brandon will know he’s serious. They keep up eye contact for a few seconds, then Saader caves with a sigh and slumps back into the couch, obviously thinking. 

There’s a little bit of silence, but Andrew is patient. Or, well, more patient now than he used to be, anyway. Finally, Brandon says, “So, right after I got settled in Columbus, I adopted a dog. Dottie was her name. I thought, like, she would help me think of my place there as home, you know? Be somebody who was always excited to see me. And I had that contract, you know, I could afford a dog sitter for when I went on the road.” 

Saader sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “So, that was in October. In March, we were on the road—in St. Louis, I think. And I take a bad hit and go down wrong, wrench my shoulder, I’m out for a couple games. After the game—which we lost—I’m back in the hotel and I get a call from the dog sitter, who’s crying her eyes out.” Brandon exhales roughly. “Dottie had run out the door, and she wasn’t fast enough to catch her, and like—right into traffic.” 

“ _Jesus_ ,” says Andrew in horrified sympathy. He extends his legs across Brandon’s lap, remembering how physical contact always comforted him before when he was upset, and that seems to still work, because he drops a hand to Andrew’s ankle and relaxes minutely.

“Yeah. And then I was at home by myself, y’know, recovering, and it was so quiet, and her toys were everywhere, and her hair was on everything, and—yeah. I was a mess.”

“No shit, man,” Andrew says. He scoots a little closer and drops a hand on Brandon’s elbow; he can't imagine what he could say that would help, but maybe touching him will.

Brandon gives him half a smile. “Okay, your turn, Shawzer. Best thing that’s happened to you in the last six.”

Andrew opens his mouth to start answering, and then the second half of Saader’s sentence catches up with him. “Hang on, what the fuck? Then I’m gonna feel like a huge asshole, like, sorry about your dog dying in a terrible accident, now listen to how fucking great my life’s been.”

Saader flicks him in the ankle, right on the bone. It kind of hurts. “No, you should tell a happy story because if you tell a sad one then I’ll feel compelled to tell another and we’ll end up having a drunken pity party, which is just not a good look on anyone over 22.”

This is, Andrew must admit, an excellent point. The answer that comes to him right away feels kind of stupid, but he knows Saader isn’t going to judge him, so he just goes with it. “Right, so, okay, you know a couple years ago when we got eliminated from the playoffs in the first round? We got an extra long summer, which, not what you want, ever, but it was a little bit nice after so many years of really deep runs, and I was out on the lake fishing with some guys from home and...I don’t know if it’s really a thing that happened, but it sort of hit me that, like…” Andrew pauses to take a drink of his beer and figure out how to phrase what he’s getting at here.

After a moment, he continues, “I’m just— _happy_ , you know? I get to do what I love and get paid well to do it, I’ve got great friends, a great family, I live in a great city. I’m just an incredibly lucky guy. Which I always kinda knew, but I really realized it that day, if that makes any sense at all.”

Brandon’s really smiling at him now, expression warm and soft and open, and he runs his thumb across Andrew’s ankle. “Yeah, Andy,” he says. 

—

When training camp comes, Andrew revels in the way the newer Hawks get completely blown away by Saader. The guy’s a force of nature on the ice; he’s huge and fast and he can bend the play to his will if he wants. It’s not like Andrew _forgot_ , but it’s so nice to be on his side again, and it’s amazing how much he’s developed over the last few years. 

Brandon slots back onto Tazer’s wing like it’s fucking 2015 all over again, but Q is still Q, and he changes up line combinations a hundred times an hour. For the camp scrimmage at the end of the week, he puts Brandon and Andrew on Teuvo’s wings for the powerplay, and—

They score in about four seconds. Okay, so one of the defenders is fresh from Rockford and looks like he’s so nervous he’s not sure he’s holding the right end of his stick, but _still_. Chelsea Dagger blares through the UC and the fans are on their feet as Andrew aggressively hugs Saader into the boards.

“Man, it’s weird to hear that again instead of the cannon,” says Brandon under his breath. Andrew only hears it because he’s in the middle of the celly—he’s pretty sure Brandon didn’t mean for the others to hear it. When he looks up, Brandon’s looking away; he’s smiling, because he just scored, but something in his eyes is far away.

A hot, ugly rush of regret, resentment, and jealousy swirls up in Andrew’s gut. It’s all his bad feelings about the trade and the still-raw Finals loss last year, combined with Brandon talking about his _other_ team this way—he wants to drag it out and examine it, inside his head anyway, but they’re in the middle of a game (okay, a scrimmage, but people paid to be here, so it counts). He gives Brandon a facewash to wake him up, and Brandon grapples with him as they skate over to the bench. Andrew thinks it might be autopilot, but Brandon catches his eye and gives him a grateful look later, so. 

—

The preseason is—well, it’s the way it always is. They win some, they lose some, but the rules are made up and the points don’t matter, and what does matter is they absolutely _decimate_ the Blues on opening night. Like 6-1, decimate. Like Saader gets a hat trick and two assists, decimate. Like Andrew’s beginning to wonder if Brandon’s going to get the keys to the city after this based on the way the UC is chanting his name, decimate.

Obviously that’s not a sustainable rate of production, but Saader keeps doing well, keeps impressing. Andrew feels like he can’t walk ten feet in Chicago without seeing a Saad jersey—granted, he’s looking for them now, but still. 

After practice a couple weeks in, Andrew’s shooting the shit with Brandon, throwing tape at him as they get undressed, that sort of thing. Louie comes up to them and asks a question about the 2-on-1 drill they’d been doing. Andrew’s working on an answer when Brandon speaks up—as eloquent and on the nose as he ever was, walking Louie through the finer points just like he’d wanted.

And that’s—fine, honestly. Andrew’s more than happy to defer to Saader on stuff like that, since he explains it better than Andrew ever could. But then, later, when Brandon’s in the shower, Louie corners Andrew again and says, “So, I wanted to know what you thought about positioning on 2-on-1s.”

Which, that’s confusing, because they had this exact conversation like fifteen minutes ago, Andrew was _there_ , and Brandon had explained it perfectly. “Uh...did you hit your head or something, bro, ‘cause I’m pretty sure Saader literally _just_ talked to you about this,” Andrew says. 

Louie looks around, sort of furtively, and then repeats, “I wanted to know what _you_ thought.”

Oh. Andrew knows he can be a bit thick-skulled sometimes, but he’s not going to miss emphasis as subtle as a brick. He kind of wants to yell at Louie, but that’s not actually gonna help, so he makes himself count to three in his head and then says, “Look, Tony—I think what Saader thought, only phrased way worse and with a lot more y’knows and sort of awkward hand gestures to try to halfway get across what I mean. Like, I know you were asking me, and that’s flattering, but honestly he’s probably the right guy on this kind of stuff—dude’s hockey IQ is off the _charts_.” He ruffles Louie’s hair a bit, to show he’s not mad at him or anything, and Louie accepts what he’s told more or less without complaint.

A couple days later at morning skate, Andrew sees Louie and Saader discussing shooting angles, and he feels so proud of both of them that he has to fist pump about it. He thinks he manages to do it subtly, but then Duncs skates directly into him from behind and starts chirping him about it, so...maybe not so much.

—

Practice is always a bit looser when they’ve got a few days between games. It starts out with the usual drills, but then they start goofing around a bit, Q looks the other way, and before Andrew knows it he’s gone from board battling with Saader to trying to knock him over by poking him in the back of the knees with his stick. It doesn’t work, because it worked once and then Brandon learned from his mistakes, but it’s still funny to watch if the other guys’ reactions are any indication. 

It’s the last few minutes of practice anyway and Q seems to have completely stopped trying, now chatting with Kitch about something on his whiteboard. When he whacks Saader again, Saader pulls him into a headlock—and in a fit of nostalgia-fueled inspiration, Andrew leans forward and bites him in the side. 

Brandon drops him at once and Andrew crumples to the ice, laughing his head off. Teuvo skates over and showers him with snow, but Andrew just lies there giggling. “He bit me,” says Brandon, deadpan, but Andrew knows if he weren’t laughing too hard to check he’d see Brandon fighting a smile.

“Again?” says Teuvo dryly. Brandon lifts up his jersey and underarmour, checking for a mark. There’s not one, Andrew didn’t bite him _that_ hard, but that doesn’t stop Teuvo from kicking him gently in the shin and saying, “What, do you think he plays for Tampa now?” 

Q blows his whistle not long after that and tells them to stop screwing around and pack it in. Andrew stands up only to come face to face with Jojo, so he has to shove at him and try to give him a noogie through his helmet, it’s a crucial part of their rookie-mentor relationship. 

Jojo’s used to this too; he puts up with it for a second, then checks him into the boards. Andrew’s so proud of him. He throws his arm around Jojo’s neck, because that’s basically as good as announcing his feelings. 

“You know, I’ve never seen you work that hard to make somebody laugh,” says Joey under his breath. Andrew frowns at him, a little confused, and Jojo points ahead with his stick, at where Saader and Teuvo are chatting as they skate slowly off the ice.

Presumably he’s not talking about Teuvo. Andrew rolls his eyes, mostly for show, and pulls his arm back so he can elbow Jojo in the side. “Where do you get off talking like you know shit?” he gripes. Jojo tries to duck out of his way, but Andrew’s become wily in his old age; he fakes right, then goes left, gets him in a headlock and gives him a nice long facewash. That’ll teach him respect for his elders.

Kitch is hollering something at them, and whoops, they’re the last two on the ice. Andrew lets Jojo go and shoves him forward; he stumbles but doesn’t fall, instead managing to look moderately graceful by turning around and skating backwards, facing Andrew. “Nahhh, but really, Andy, you just seem a lot happier lately. I’m happy for you that he’s back.”

And with a shit eating grin, ‘cause he knows he’d get punched for a sappy comment like that, Jojo is off the ice in two more strides and halfway down the tunnel before Andrew even processes what he said.

Andrew shakes his head, but he’s smiling a little anyway. “I did too good of a job on him,” he says under his breath to the empty rink.

—

Only in retrospect can Andrew see where it starts to fall apart. At the time, it’s just an ordinary game day—morning skate, lunch with Saader, following him back to his new place for early afternoon video games. They get a little wrapped up in a FIFA marathon, though, and Andrew swears when he checks the time. “I better go if I want to get any kind of a nap in,” he says regretfully.

Brandon rolls his eyes at Andrew, like Andrew’s being an even bigger idiot than normal. “Just crash with me, I’ve got a king bed,” he offers.

There’s a part of Andrew’s brain that’s yelling at him about what a terrible idea this is, reminding him how he keeps noticing Brandon’s laugh or the way he’s dressing better these days. But Andrew’s made a career out of not listening to that little voice. “All right, sure. Thanks, buddy,” he says easily.

The nap itself is fine. Saader’s bed is more than big enough for the two of them, and they don’t wake up tangled in each other’s arms or anything. They do wake up facing each other, though—or Andrew does. He comes to a minute or two before the alarm; Brandon’s still out.

Andrew lets himself look for a moment, still a little sleep-hazy, and that’s his biggest mistake yet, because it hits him then that this is exactly like that morning six years ago. They woke up just like this: not touching, still dressed, sun pouring in the window. They woke up like this, finally cut the tension that had been hanging between them for at least a season, and then Brandon left. No matter how beautiful Brandon looks right now, curled in on himself, face peaceful in sleep, Andrew knows he can’t fucking live through that again. 

The alarm goes off, startling them both; Brandon’s eyes open and Andrew sits up a little too fast. He mumbles some nonsense about getting some water and takes advantage of Brandon fumbling with his phone to get the fuck out of that bedroom. He knows if he doesn’t, he won’t be strong enough to stop himself laying back down, whining for five more minutes, reaching out to touch.

—

The problem is that Andrew’s never had great willpower, and now that he’s walking this line, he just wants to keep pushing things. It started with napping together, but now Andrew keeps finding excuses to touch Brandon, or making comments that straddle the fine line between chirping and flirting. It feels like it did the season before Brandon left: fragile, strange, and maybe not a good idea, but Andrew can’t help himself.

They win that night’s game, a decisive 5-2 victory over Minnesota, and at practice the next morning, Andrew either can’t or doesn’t really want to repress the urge to bother Saader at every opportunity. He steals a puck Brandon’s idly stickhandling with during warm up laps, then keeps bumping into him to try and knock him over.

It’s the same kind of stuff he usually does during practice, but normally he likes to spread the love around, even if Brandon has already been receiving a larger than normal share as of late. Saader’s giving back as good as he gets, too; when they’re waiting their turn for a drill, he steals Andrew’s stick and holds it out of his reach. That lasts for all of five seconds, because neither of them want to attract enough attention to get them bag skated for fucking around, but it’s certainly plenty of encouragement for Andrew to keep it up.

When it finally is their turn, Brandon fires a beautiful wrister over Darls’ shoulder and Andrew slaps his ass about three times more than he otherwise would. Saader smirks at him like he knows what Andrew’s doing. 

“Looking good out there, Saady boy,” says Andrew sweetly. 

“Uh huh,” says Brandon.

—

The Thai place that Brandon and Andrew used to hit up for lunch approximately once a week is gone now, but when Brandon reminisces about it, Andrew jumps at the opportunity. “There’s one over on Grand that’s pretty good,” he suggests.

“Then what are we waiting for?” says Saader. Yes, Andrew is _in there_.

They decide to meet at the restaurant, because they’ve both got their cars at the rink. After Andrew gives Brandon directions, he spends most of the car ride bopping along to whatever cheerful top-40 hit is blaring from his car speakers. It’s not normally his kind of music, but today—today the sun is shining, and practice was good, and he and Saader are having Thai again. Everything’s right with the world.

Despite being the one who needed directions, Brandon somehow beats him to the restaurant. He’s sitting at a table outside, smiling at his phone, when Andrew walks up. “Good call,” says Andrew as he sits down. “Might be one of the last days it’s warm enough to eat outside.”

Brandon grins at Andrew and pockets his phone. “Yeah, I thought the same thing,” he says. 

They don’t talk much as they’re flipping through the menus; they both always like to look, even though they’re going to order the same things they always get. New restaurant, doesn’t matter; Andrew will get the shrimp pad thai, and Brandon will get the green curry. 

It’s possible that Andrew’s tried the green curry here, just to see, and found it excellent, but he’s not going to volunteer that information. 

As they’re looking at the menus, though, Brandon’s phone keeps going off. After the fifth or sixth chime, Brandon takes it out to scroll through his messages, chuckle at it, and put it away. Andrew’s, like, curious, that’s all—like, what mass texts is Brandon getting that he isn’t—but before he can ask, their waitress shows up to take their order.

Andrew gets the shrimp pad thai. Brandon gets red curry. 

It’s such a dumb, small thing, but it feels a little like Andrew’s world has shifted on its axis. He stares at Saader, and Saader laughs at him. “What? Nothing wrong with trying something new. Turns out the red’s just as good as the green.” 

When their waitress leaves, Brandon’s phone goes off again. He checks it, laughs, and types out a reply, but even as he’s typing it goes off twice more. 

Andrew’s, like—used to that, whatever, it’s 2021, people’s phones are always yelling at them, but. “I thought Louie was looking pretty good in practice today,” says Andrew, and Brandon says nothing, still absorbed in his phone.

After the longest few seconds Andrew has ever sat through, Saader looks up and says, “Huh? Sorry, I—” He chuckles and raises his phone, a little sheepish. “Cam’s buying a new TV and he’s livetexting me the ridiculous stuff the salesman is saying.” In the time it took him to say that sentence, his phone has gone off three more times.

Andrew feels a cold weight sink into the pit of his stomach. He knows it’s stupid to be jealous of the Columbus guys: they were an important part of Brandon’s life for six years, and at the end of the day he still picked Chicago. But Andrew can’t help it. He hates feeling like this, but he also hates being ignored, and if he sits here for another second he’s going to do something he really regrets, like snatch Brandon’s phone out of his hands and smash it on the pavement.

Instead of doing that, he takes a deep breath, and checks his own phone (which is on vibrate, because he does crazy things like trying to prioritize the people he’s having a meal with, he thinks bitterly). “Oh god,” he says suddenly, affecting exasperation as best he can.

“What?” says Brandon, finally looking up from his phone.

“Teuvo’s car broke down and he can’t call a cab because he’s lost again,” Andrew improvises. “Sorry, but I gotta go get him before he gets shanked in a dark alley and our powerplay goes to shit. Guess I’ll have to take a rain check, Saader.”

Brandon’s frowning at him. He knows Andrew well enough that he can probably see through the charade, but Andrew’s not sticking around for any questions. He can vaguely hear Brandon calling after him, but he keeps walking to his car and pretends like he can’t hear. 

Once he’s safely inside, protected by his tinted windows, he lets himself rest his forehead against the steering wheel and take a couple deep breaths. Then he pulls out into traffic and calls Teuvo at the same time.

“What, Shawzy,” says Teuvo, sounding mildly irritated. He probably isn’t, that’s just kind of his default setting. And even if he is, Andrew doesn’t have time to deal with that; he’s skipping coercion and heading straight to blackmail. Desperate times, desperate measures.

“If Saader asks, your car broke down and you were lost and I had to come find you,” Andrew says without preamble.

“Wh—”

“And if you don’t cover for me, I’ll put that picture of you from the last cup win on Twitter. You know the one.”

There’s a long pause. “Shawzy, are you all right?” says Teuvo. He doesn’t sound annoyed anymore; now he sounds concerned, which is much worse.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” says Andrew, brittle. “Look, will you just do it?”

“...Yeah, Shawzy,” says Teuvo with a sigh. “If Brandon asks.”

“Thanks, Turbo,” Andrew says, then hangs up. He’s been driving aimlessly, just getting as much distance between himself and the restaurant as he can. Once he hangs up, in a supreme twist of irony, he finds that he’s actually lost. 

Andrew pulls into a Walgreens parking lot to breathe for a while before trying to find his way home.

—

Three nights later, they cream the Preds: the first two periods are neck and neck, but the Hawks pull ahead in the third, and Andrew gets the game-winning goal. Things were a little weird between him and Brandon the day after the Thai incident, but Andrew acting aggressively normal seems to have smoothed everything over.

Or, well. He and Brandon are acting normally, but Teuvo keeps shooting him concerned looks, and after the game, he comes up to Andrew’s stall and kicks him in the ankle sort-of gently. 

“You’re coming out tonight, yeah?” says Teuvo, casual as can be. 

Andrew is instantly suspicious. He and Teuvo are friends, yeah, but normally it’s him dragging Teuvo out after a game, not the other way around. Unfortunately, the only way to find out what he’s up to is to walk into his trap, so Andrew grins and kicks him back. “Abso-fuckin’-lutely. Gotta let all the rest of you buy me drinks for that GWG.”

The wrinkle between Teuvo’s eyebrows doesn’t go away. “Good,” he says simply, then shoves at Andrew’s head and walks away.

“What do you mean, _good_?” Andrew calls after him. Teuvo ignores him; Andrew feels compelled to add, “We all know you speak English now, don’t give me any of that ‘I don’t understand you’ bullshit!”

That gets a few laughs, though not a response from Teuvo. It’s weird. Brandon’s picked up on it too; he’s looking at Andrew with that adorably confused head-tilt expression he gets, like he’s a friendly dog in a Disney movie. Andrew shrugs—even if he was better at across the locker room charades, it’s not like he could explain this.

—

He doesn’t figure out Teuvo’s plan until he’s a couple beers in, feeling laid back and happy. Jojo gets up to go to the bathroom, leaving Andrew alone in the booth. He taps out a rhythm on the table, bobbing his head along to the music—and isn’t alone fifteen seconds before Jonny slides into the seat across from him.

“Feelin’ good, Shawzy?” Jonny teases, and Andrew laughs.

“Fuck you, I scored the game winner and I’m a grown-ass man, I can be a little drunk if I want,” Andrew says cheerfully. 

Tazer looks considering. “Scale of one to post-Cup, how drunk are you?”

Andrew’s not sure why he cares, but whatever. “Like a three? I had like three beers, c’mon.” 

“Awesome,” says Jonny. “‘Cause I wanted to talk to you.”

And then Jonny’s turning the laser eyes on him, and Andrew _knows_ that Teuvo must have ratted him out to Jonny—which, Andrew didn’t explicitly tell him not to, rookie mistake—and he was making sure Andrew came out tonight so Jonny could catch him off guard. “Sneaky little fucker,” Andrew mutters under his breath. 

Tazer ignores him. “How do you think Saader’s doing at fitting back in?” he asks.

It’s the typical Jonny interrogation. Step one: get you alone and a little tipsy. Step two: warm you up by asking you about something other than yourself. Once you get going, step three: move in for the kill. Andrew fell for it enough times as a rookie, he could definitely avoid it now. But the problem is that Tazer’s relentless when he wants something, so it would only be delaying the inevitable, and…

And anyway, there’s a part of Andrew that kind of _wants_ to talk about it. He would never have brought it up on his own, but Jonny’s a good listener, and he’s trustworthy, and he cares about Brandon as much as Andrew does (albeit in a distinctly different way, Andrew hopes). 

So, with a sigh, he gives in. “Pretty good, I’d say. Old guys remember the manchild days, new guys are warming up to him—isn’t he playing darts with Dano and Louie right now?” says Andrew, gesturing vaguely. At least, that’s what he was doing when Jojo brought Andrew his last beer. 

Jonny doesn’t even pretend to look where Andrew sort-of pointed. At least he’s doing Andrew the favor of not even pretending like they don’t both know what’s happening here. “And how about you?” he asks. “Happy to have your partner in crime back?” 

Andrew does kind of want to talk about it, but it’s hard to stop himself from deflecting automatically. “I know Teuvo told you about the other day,” he says, eyes on his beer bottle. “You don’t have to go all captain-y on me, that was just—I was having a weird day. That was a blip, everything’s fine.” 

Tazer does not look convinced at all. There’s a pause, and then Andrew realizes he’s breaking out the big guns: staring at you and patiently waiting for you to ramble on to fill the silence. Even when he knows it’s happening, it gets Andrew every time. 

Better not to fight the inevitable. “I just,” Andrew starts, then he sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “It’s really fucking stupid is what it is, ‘cause I’m over the moon to have him back, but I just—got a little jealous of him texting one of the guys from Columbus when we were having lunch. See? Really nothing.”

It’s quiet for long enough that Andrew wonders if Jonny is expecting him to ramble more. He’s racking his brains for what else he can say—that really is what happened, what does Jonny expect?—when Jonny says, “Shawzy, you’re a straightforward kind of guy, I’m just going to ask: is there—or was there—anything, y’know, going on between the two of you?”

Andrew’s heart relocates to his throat so quickly he’s surprised it didn’t break the sound barrier. “U-uh,” he stutters, but Jonny apparently isn’t done, because he barrels forward as if Andrew said nothing. 

“Because you know nobody on the team would care, I hope you wouldn’t hide it from us—not that it’s really our business, but...Shawzy, you’re like a little brother to me, and I gotta say, I was really worried about you when Saader got traded. Like, I was sad and shocked too, I missed him too, but you...I was never sure if you really got over it or if you just got better at hiding it. And maybe you guys were a lot closer than I realized, but that’s not...normal friend behavior, y’know?” 

It’s. It’s touching, but also a little bit earth-shaking, to hear that from Jonny. Andrew thought he’d hidden what a mess he was after Saader got traded pretty well. He’d spent a few weeks moping, but he’d been normal by the time that season started, or so he thought. He remembers Jonny checking up on him, but at the time, Andrew told himself that was just Jonny predicting how he would feel, not reacting to something Andrew was doing.

And as vaguely sick as it makes him feel, Jonny pointing this out makes another thing clear: as much as Andrew’s been telling himself he got over Brandon years ago and the way he feels now is just a spark being rekindled, he’s pretty sure the actual truth is that he’s been carrying a torch for his best friend for six fucking years.

He can’t exactly tell Tazer the truth; he may have figured out Andrew’s feelings, but Andrew’s not going to tell him about the time he and Brandon slept together, not when the two of them have been pretending that didn’t happen from the moment it was over. 

Rather than come up with some way to hedge, Andrew gives Jonny a tight smile. “Think I’m gonna head home, Jonny.” 

Jonny looks concerned, but he doesn’t push it. Probably he thinks Andrew’s embarrassed to be caught out and is trying to let him go lick his wounds in private.

Which, he is a little, but mostly, Andrew’s tired. He’s tired of pretending like Brandon’s trade didn’t shatter his heart into a million fucking pieces, and he’s tired of not talking about what happened between them before that. He needs to rest and sober up, and then he needs to suck it up, rip off the bandaid, and talk to Brandon about his feelings like a god damned adult. 

—

Andrew’s a little more embarrassed when he wakes up, especially when he checks his phone and finds a text from Jonny that says _If you ever wanna talk about it, you know I’m here_. Andrew deletes that as soon as he’s finished reading it. He appreciates Jonny looking out for him, but over Andrew’s dead body is he gonna, like, go buy ice cream and whine about his feelings to him.

That’s not the only text he has, though; Brandon’s also sent him a couple. _Did you seriously leave that early, old man?_ says the first, and then, a couple minutes later, _Man I’m not looking forward to my next bday if it’s going to make me as boring as you._

Andrew smirks and fires back, _Just needed my beauty sleep. Remember, I’m the pretty one ever since we traded Sharpy._ He debates for a second, fingers hovering over the screen, before adding _(and you),_ then sending it before he can change his mind.

Before Andrew can even lock his phone screen, Brandon replies with a smiling, blushy emoji. It’s adorable, mostly because it allows him to exactly picture the face Brandon’s making at his phone right now. _Guess that’s your cross to bear,_ Brandon adds.

Andrew reads over the texts again, then scrolls back in their conversation a bit, idly re-reading their last few exchanges. They’re basically all like this, chirps that cross the line into flirting, and they have been since within a month of Brandon’s return.

He scrolls back down to the bottom of the conversation and types, _Just woke up & am already bored. Want to come over & make lunch with me?_

The little grey dots appear to indicate that Brandon’s typing. Andrew rolls over onto his back and makes a pact with himself: if Brandon says yes, then he’s going to make them stop dancing around this—whatever it is, and they’re going to actually talk about it instead. Starting with the time they slept together, probably. It’s just—it’s time. Andrew’s thirty years old, and it’s time. 

_Yeah sure, be there in 45ish,_ Brandon replies. 

—

45 minutes is enough time for Andrew to take a quick shower, get dressed, nervously tidy his already clean kitchen, and stare into his fridge for lunch inspiration. He’s just decided on quesadillas when his buzzer goes. 

“It’s me,” Brandon’s voice crackles through the speaker. Andrew buzzes him up instead of responding. He’s really nervous—like, playoffs game 7 nervous, which is stupid. It’s _Saader_. Whatever happens, they’re gonna be fine.

Knowing that doesn’t actually make him stop freaking out, though, not until he’s letting Brandon in the door and giving him a hug. It’s brief, platonic, but Andrew’s far enough gone at this point that he finds the scent of Brandon’s shampoo and cologne inherently comforting, so. It really is time. 

Still, he’s not gonna do it on an empty stomach. “Quesadillas okay?” Andrew says as they head into the kitchen.

Brandon nods. “Sounds great.”

Andrew reaches into the fridge and pulls out some produce: a couple tomatoes, an onion, bell peppers. “Awesome. Chop these up, will you?” he asks, dumping them into Brandon’s arms. Brandon takes them over to the sink to wash them, and Andrew takes out the chicken breasts, his contribution. “Knives are in the—”

“I know,” Brandon interrupts, pulling one out of the drawer to the left of the sink. Andrew turns away, both so he can get out the seasonings for the chicken and so he can get his face under control. They’ve hung out here a lot since Saader came back, cooked together a few times, so it’s not shocking that he would have an idea of where stuff is, but—it’s nice, to think of him fitting into Andrew’s place. Making himself at home.

They talk nonsense while Andrew pan-fries the chicken and Brandon cuts the vegetables: Brandon tells him a hilarious story about Jojo hitting a girl with a dart last night, Andrew mentions a rookie from a couple years back who did the same thing but with a pool cue and has since been traded to the Rangers, they both express some surprise over just how terrible the Rangers are this year. It’s easy, it’s comfortable, it’s like every other time they hang out. 

When Andrew’s done chopping the cooked chicken, he says, “All right, bring the veggies over here and help me put these babies together.” They do it assembly-line style: chicken, cheese, veggies, and a little sriracha. 

Andrew cooks them in a little oil, and then they feast. It’s pretty quiet while they eat, both because they’re eating and because Andrew’s starting to get nervous again. He wants to rip the bandaid off already, but he’s not going to let his food get cold. Priorities.

He makes himself wait until they’re done, until they’ve loaded the dishwasher and put the leftovers away and are slumped on the couch, until Brandon says, “So now what?”

“Well, we could play some FIFA or NHL22…” says Andrew, as casually as he can manage. “Or we could stop ignoring the elephant in the room and, like, finally talk about that time we hooked up instead of pretending it never happened.”

Brandon chokes on his water. It takes him a minute to recover; Andrew waits patiently even though his heart is beating doubletime. “Uh,” Brandon manages. “Sure, we could do that.”

Andrew exhales, then rolls his neck a bit, like he’s getting ready for a fight on the ice. “Okay, so, this doesn’t have to be a big thing, I guess I just gotta get it off my chest so I can have some closure, since apparently ignoring it for six years didn’t do it. Just. When we hooked up, like—did I take advantage of you, were you drunker than I thought you were? ‘Cause like, for me it kind of felt like we’d been moving that way all season, but then you were gone when I woke up, and then we didn’t talk about it, and then you left, so.” 

The way Saader’s looking at him with an expression of abject horror is sort of encouraging, in a weird way, but Andrew’s not going to assume anything. Not anymore. After several seconds of silence, Brandon says hoarsely, “Christ, Andy, is that really what you thought this whole time?”

Andrew shrugs uncomfortably. “I didn’t know? I mean...I hoped not, but it felt like it made sense, especially when you didn’t sign in Chicago.”

“That’s—but that wasn’t my choice,” Brandon bursts out.

“What?” says Andrew, furrowing his brow. He knew how much the organization hadn’t wanted to lose Saader, so he’d always figured it was money or Saader wanting to go someplace new, either of which made sense, especially if their hookup hadn’t been as great for him as it was for Andrew. 

Brandon shakes his head. “Like, I—I left after we slept together ‘cause I was freaking out, and then I didn’t know how to talk to you about it because I was so scared of screwing everything up, but the contract thing…” He laughs and runs his hand through his hair. “I left the whole thing up to my agent, figured he knew my market value and what he should be asking for better than I did. Which, I guess he did, because he got me the biggest contract possible, but...If I’d actually been given the choice to take a pay cut and stay, I would have. I thought he knew that, but at the end of the day it was my fault for not being more involved. Plus, I kind of think the trade surprised him too? Like, he thought Stan was bluffing, maybe. All I know is one day it was, ‘The negotiations are coming along but these things take time,’ and the next it was ‘You’ve been traded to Columbus.’”

Well. That kind of drastically revises Andrew’s entire view on the past six years. He stares at Brandon, because he doesn’t even know what to say to that—and Brandon takes that as a signal to continue.

“It definitely wasn’t just you who felt like it was inevitable that we hooked up. I mean, I’d had a crush on you since Rockford. If I hadn’t gotten myself traded, probably I would have eventually worked up the nerve to ask you out for real or something,” says Brandon, a little sheepish.

That’s another information bomb Brandon’s just dropped, but apparently the two shocks cancel each other out, because Andrew’s not speechless anymore. “A _crush_ , huh?” he teases. He could just leave it there—that would be the easy way—but instead he makes himself say, “Do you still?” It comes out more vulnerable than he’d intended, but at this point he’s pretty sure that’s going to be okay. 

He especially thinks so when Brandon gives him a look like he’s the dumbest person on the planet, a look Brandon gives him at least six times a day. “Nah, Shawzer. I let you sleep in my bed and flirt with me at practice, but I got over you forever ago,” he says, dry as anything. He can’t hold the expression for long, though; eventually a smile breaks through, and there goes Andrew’s heart again. It’s almost painful. 

Andrew’s grinning too, so wide his face hurts. He can’t help it. “Come _here_ , asshole,” he says, and then he leans over to grab Saader’s arm and pull him closer. 

They’re both smiling so much that it’s actually a little difficult to kiss, but they manage. And then they make out on the couch like teenagers for a while. The whole thing is a little ridiculous, but Andrew’s more than okay with it. They’ve got lots of lost time to make up for, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like the record to show that if I wrote this today it would involve Shawzy going to Columbus, but I started writing this approximately 48hrs after the trade happened, so...I'm still proud of it and I hope everyone enjoyed :) And if you did you can find me on [tumblr!](http://aperfect20.tumblr.com)


End file.
